Monday, 26 January 2015

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!

Following on thematically from my guest spot last week at Shady Lady Fairy Tales, I thought I'd post an excerpt from
Gold, On Snow - my attempt at disemboweling  reworking Snow White. It appeared in Harlequin anthology Alison's Wonderland (ed. Alison Tyler).

I don't think I need to give much introduction except to say that it's told from the viewpoint of the spying witch. Svartalfar = "dark elves" = dwarves.

From his belt he brings out a key upon a thong, and unlocks the chest, setting back the lid.

It is full of gold. Not coin, but jewelry of extraordinary delicacy and beauty. The girl stands. See how the tip of her tongue wets her plump berry-colored lips: she is trembling with anticipation.  She moves into the center of the room, the circle formed by the seven svartalfar on their stools. Then one of them, his eyes the yellow of topazes, comes forward and unlaces her dress, dropping it to her feet then helping her step out.

Skin as white as snow. It is very nearly no exaggeration; in the lamplight she seems to glow.  I squirm with envy and with trepidation; she is absolutely beautiful. Perfect breasts, twin-tipped with pink. Perfectly curved hips. Perfect, flawless thighs. She is as smooth as marble taken from a riverbed, as a polished moonstone, as new-fallen snow. The only colors about her are in the soot-black hair upon her head, her gleaming dark eyes, her blood-red lips. I hear the svartalfar sigh.

They dress her from the treasure box. They come forward all at once, and work with the patient care of true craftsmen, neither getting in each other's way nor fumbling, their dark hands delicate and sure on her pale skin: a pair of elaborate earrings, filigree greaves that embrace her shins and calves, wristlets that attach to finger-rings by a web of golden links, spiraling armlets.  They catch up her hair in a crown of gold lace and drape her cheekbones in a mask of finely pointed mail. Then a collar of gold, and chains that hang down from it to rings that go through her nipples, pulling them up. Rings through her labia and her clitoris. She does not flinch; the invisible holes in her flesh must be old, and she well used to the jewelry. Her whole body is hung with arcs of delicate gold chain, pinned to her flanks by fine wires. Filigree wings attach flat to her shoulder blades. A plug is inserted deep between the snowy globes of her bottom and she bends and takes it with equanimity: when it is in place a gold tail stands in a curve like a cat's behind her, gleaming in the light of the fire.

See how they admire their own handiwork when they are done, standing back to revel in the full effect? They love artifice and they love beauty; she is now the perfect combination of both. Her lips curve with satisfaction under her chain-mail half-veil. She runs her hands gently, gently down her own body, plucking at the wires that pierce her flesh, circling her breasts and hefting their orbs to make the pendant beads dance. She rolls her rear to make her tail twitch. She shimmies her hips.  She loves her own body, dressed only in gold. She loves what they have made of her: a pagan idol.

To show her gratitude, she begins to dance for them. The svartalfar kneel back in their circle, eyes aglow, transfixed by her slender glittering form, and they beat time for her upon their thighs,  the seats of their stools, an upturned bucket. This dance is one she never learned in her father's ballroom. It is all pride and taunting, pleasure and lasciviousness. It is slow like the ooze of cream, then urgent as the shudder of an arrow striking home. She writhes her hips and rolls her buttocks and shakes her breasts until the dark elves look entranced, half-witless with desire. Even from my spyhole I can see the moist gleam on her inner thighs, the swelling petals of her secret rose peeking out when she bends to tease each of them in turn. They must be able to smell the perfume of her lust.

Finally one of them – it is the cook, the one I think of as the youngest – breaks. He pitches forward, grabbing her legs, planting hot kisses on her bare thighs. He drops his breeches and pumps the swollen member that rises from it frantically in his fist. The girl signals to the leader with a flash of her eyes, and suddenly they are all on their feet again.

There are treasures still waiting in the jewelry box, you see. They prize the youngest of their number from her, and clip more and longer chains to her nipple-rings and to the piercings through her sex – and the ends of these chains they keep in their hands, taut. Then they dress her in a harness such as I have never seen before; a device that straps about her thighs and stands proud from her mound: a phallus of gleaming gold, rendered in perfect detail to every fold and vein, horrifyingly oversized and twice as obscene arising from the narrow hips of this pretty girl.
She laughs. Then they bend their young cook on hands and knees and she crouches to impale him up the fundament. And as she rides him – and she is not gentle, she is not kindly, she buggers him like a soldier in a long war rutting his whore – the others hold the chains tight and pluck upon them, stretching her nipples and labia out and sending repeated stabs of sensation to torment them. Her breasts quiver, sweet prisoners of nipples that have turned dark and swollen. She slaps the muscular rump beneath her hands and squeals. The youngest svartalfar holds his own pintle and jerks it, groaning, the muscles standing up on his arm and shoulder – until she comes, shrieking and tearing at his ass-cheeks with her nails, and he spurts the thick jets of his seed over the floor.
That is too much for the other six. They release her from the harness, leaving their comrade to collapse with the golden phallus still buried to the hilt in his bowels. They unclip the long chains to make sure she will not become entangled and pull the cat's-tail from her anus. Then they ravish her, each desperate to take possession of their goddess.

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